


Irreplaceable

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Tag, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-06
Updated: 2009-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:12:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Related episode: The Siege III.</p><p>Rodney does damage analysis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 of the Chess Series

It took a couple of days for it really to hit home, before the incident in the mess hall in which Rodney went completely nuts, because—_hello?_—first there was their probable total annihilation (averted by Rodney's brilliant engineering for the second time in a week) and fourteen actual hours of honest-to-God deep, REM-less coma-like sleep in carefully planned increments interspersed with Rodney making up for all the missed breakfasts, lunches, mid-afternoon snacks, dinners, and pre-late-night snacks, _et cetera_, from the previous three weeks.

And then, of course, he had to read the full casualty list and go throw up.

After that, he took another long nap.

There were damage lists to compile, too, and replacement parts to order, so it was maybe a day? Two? Before Rodney, a little dopey from all the sleep and a too-long hot shower, wandered into the mess for another make-up brunch and saw Major John Sheppard sitting there with one elbow on the table, honking softly with his incredibly stupid laugh while Teyla waved her hands in unusual animation, obviously telling him a funny story. And Rodney looked at Sheppard's casual slouch, the tilt of his eyes and those ridiculous shocks of dark hair sticking every which-way, and suddenly Rodney was _furious_—a full _naquadah_ nuclear meltdown happening right there in his skull—and he took a couple of rigid steps forward, hauled his arm back, and socked Sheppard right in the cheek.

Sheppard had barely had a chance to look up and start to smile before his eyes widened and he went flying in a very satisfactory fashion to land sprawled on his ass with Rodney's furious, "_You son of a bitch!"_ still ringing in the sudden silence.

Then there was a small bubble of people babbling, and Teyla shoving her forearm against Rodney's neck to stop him from charging forward to follow Sheppard down and maybe, who knows? Get in a couple of wild swings before Sheppard recovered enough to start hitting back. Which was a good thing, really, because even with the element of surprise and Rodney's righteous fury on his side, he was pretty sure Sheppard would have pummeled him into a sticky, bleeding mess, and he'd really just come by for some artificially-flavored strawberry pancakes and not to go, as Sheppard called it later, "three-eyed alien banana bugshit."

"Rodney, what is the matter with you?" Teyla asked. Sheppard was staring up at both of them and rubbing his cheek.

"Yeah, what the _fuck_,Rodney?" But then Sheppard scrambled to his feet and put one hand on Teyla's forearm and the other on Rodney's shoulder. Rodney couldn't breathe, and his face felt hot and strangely wet. "Okay, Rodney, just calm—Teyla, help me get him out of here."

Rodney clenched his fists, one of which was throbbing peculiarly, and went with it when they shuffled him out of the mess, the three of them moving like Siamese triplets, conjoined at hands and shoulder and hips. Teyla and Sheppard were huddled close on either side, obviously trying to hide him from everyone's stares and whispers, which Rodney would have appreciated except he was out of his fucking mind.

Next thing he knew he was sitting in one of the conference rooms that flanked the gate room. Teyla did the thing where she touched his forehead with his, just for a second, and then she murmured something and left, giving John one of her meaningful glances on the way out. Teyla could say more with one eyebrow than Rodney could with an entire dictionary.

Sheppard tilted his head at the door and it locked, then he pulled up a chair and spun it around to straddle it facing Rodney. Resting both forearms along the back, Sheppard propped his chin on top. His cheekbone was already turning purple.

"So."

That was Sheppard. A man of way too few words.

Rodney just stared at him until he said, "I'm going to guess here that I've done something to really tick you off."

"Whatever gave you that impression, Major?" Rodney found himself muttering automatically, and the corner of Sheppard's mouth lifted slightly. He put his hand up to his cheek as if in answer, and Rodney closed his eyes for a second.

"Hey. Hey." Sheppard's smirk was already gone, replaced by the look he got sometimes when he was both upset and wildly uncomfortable—an almost constipated expression that never failed to make Rodney's heart do something ridiculous.

Rodney blurted, "I was just working on my spreadsheet."

Sheppard frowned. Rodney's mouth felt gummy as he explained, "Weir and Caldwell wanted me to compile a list of damaged systems and replacement parts."

That got him a nod.

"Of course, some of the damages column includes things we won't be able to repair. We are, after all, in an alien city—"

Sheppard was already looking confused, which was better than constipated.

"—and it occurred to me, as I was struggling with the poorly-engineered mess of camel droppings that is Microsoft Excel, that there are some things that are goddamned irreplaceable, Sheppard. For example, oh—a puddlejumper."

Sheppard winced and they stared at each other for a long moment. "Yeah, I know," he finally said roughly, and looked away. "I'm sor—"

"Shut up. You _idiot_." And it was all there again, burning under Rodney's skin, making his face feel stretched and tight. Sheppard startled upright and lifted his hands.

"Hey, now. Calm down—"

"I will not. I will not _calm down_, Major." Rodney clenched his fists on his thighs. The right one flared with pain. "What was I supposed to do, put in a line item for 'One Military Commander with stupid hair' in my replacement requisition?"

Sheppard's eyes were flickering anywhere but on Rodney's face.

"Should I have stuck you on the spreadsheet between the two _naquadah _generators and the three SHVAC exhaust fans?

"You know I had to do it." Sheppard's voice was flat. He didn't look constipated anymore. He looked like Rodney had shot him in the stomach.

"I know _someone_ had to do it, but maybe it could have been someone who wasn't you? Just for a change? Because I don't think you could possibly understand how I would have felt knowing it was all my fault because I couldn't fix the goddamned chair, and that I had hand-crafted the nuke that fucking _killed_ you."

Sheppard rubbed the back of his neck and tried for a smile. "Well, there was at least a fifty-fifty chance it was Zelenka's."

And just like that, Rodney was back in the control room watching Sheppard's small blue dot on the screen rising inevitably toward the big red ones and trying with all his might not to scream "Abort!" into the mic. Trying to yank the dot back down and safe with the sheer power of his mind, feeling so goddamned helpless because that was Sheppard in that jumper, that was _John, _dying right now in _five, four, three, two_—

Rodney stood suddenly, his chair wheeling out behind him, and John rose too, putting his hands up and catching Rodney's weight as he rammed forward and they both went slamming up against the wall. John's breath blew out in a surprised "Whu—" and his head smacked back hard. Rodney's hands were clenched on John's shoulders, feeling warmth and solid, living muscle. Without hesitating to think, Rodney took John's face between his palms and kissed his startled mouth.

John gasped in, and Rodney took advantage, pushing his tongue into John's mouth for one sweet second before John shoved him back.

They panted at each other, and John looked away. "Oh," he said.

"Yes. _Oh._" The fury was still there, still strong enough to subsume Rodney's sudden, queasy fear.

John turned his head back, not quite meeting Rodney's eyes. "I really never do see this coming," he said softly, but there was a small, almost-fond smile on his lips as he continued, "but I really wish I had."

"Oh," Rodney echoed stupidly, and John's smile got a little bigger.

He said, "That's _my_ line." Then, "Hey, Rodney, don't—" and he started kissing Rodney's cheek, fingertips brushing over the other one, and there was salt on John's lips when their mouths met again. John murmured, "I'm _sorry_..." and, "I didn't mean to—" and, "I didn't know. Now I know, all right? It's okay—"

Rodney had wanted this for so goddamned long he almost couldn't stand that it was happening. The kisses were sweet but bitter, because it wasn't okay, and he pulled tighter on John's front, until he could wrap his arms around John's shoulders and whisper viciously in his ear, "You said, 'So long, Rodney' and then were just gone. You were _gone_, you bastard, for exactly thirty-two seconds—I checked the logs. For thirty-two seconds you had died, you were _atomized_—"

It couldn't be his voice cracking like that, broken and thin.

John held him as if his arms were on puppet strings, an awkward cage bent around Rodney's waist, but his rough-stubbled mouth was sanding Rodney temple with damp kisses, his soft lips smoothing the burn. Like he meant it. Like Rodney was the most important thing in two galaxies. So Rodney managed to say, "You're not _expendable_. You're not a fucking _resource_—" which was a stupid, pathetic understatement, really, but John seemed to get part of it, at least.

"Not to you," he said, and Rodney went limp.

:::

They ended up going back to Rodney's quarters, waiting until the corridors were clear because Rodney was suddenly humiliated by his earlier tantrum and by what he recognized must be his terrifyingly ridiculous reddened eyes and rumpled face.

John was weirdly quiet when they got inside, and wandered a little, straightening one of Rodney's diplomas and tidying up some stray PowerBar wrappers. He was apparently good in a crisis but not at much else—which was hardly a revelation, but Rodney wished John could be different for them.

Maybe someday. At least he was here, pinballing from desk to window and rubbing the back of his neck where his hair grew dense and short. Finally John settled on the edge of Rodney's bed and hung his head down.

"So," he said to his knees.

"So, I want to sleep with you," Rodney said, another line in a long list of pathetically blurted truths, the kind he was best at. But John looked up, his eyes soft with what looked like gratitude.

"Not _just_ sleep, of course, eventually," Rodney babbled on. "Not that we'd be able to sleep much, anyway, on these ridiculous mini-toaster beds, although I'm sure we could work out the mechanics if we were willing—I'm quite good at manipulating objects in three-dimensional space—"

Thankfully, John was back in front of him, shutting him up with another kiss. This one was different, less tender, more pushy. Then he was pulling Rodney down onto the skinny bed and shoving here, tugging there, pausing to kick off his boots. Rodney did the same, and pushed his thigh between John's legs—mechanics, really, a redistribution of weight to counterbalance his torso, but John's cock was now tucked high against Rodney's thigh, and John made a little sound, a small gasp of what could be pleasure, could be a warning.

Rodney was hoping for pleasure, and tensed his leg for a larger sample size. _Definitely_ pleasure. And if that was how John sounded all the time in bed, Rodney was going to be in terrible trouble, because the little gasp/whimper went straight to his cock.

John wrapped his hand around the back of Rodney's neck and tugged his head across the pillow until they were forehead to forehead.

"Just now, I think you should stick with sleep," John said. "You need it."

_I need _you, Rodney wanted to say. _I need you not to jump into the fucking breach every single time like a one-man reenactment of Gallipoli._ But instead he rested a hand on John's neck, one fingertip brushing over the perfect little curl of hair that came to a point right at John's nape. _The nadir. Opposite the zenith_, Rodney thought, still feeling a little hysterical, a little enraged. He'd achieved his own personal nadir just recently, for thirty-two whole seconds.

But there was more time now. Time to sleep, time to maybe convince one stubborn, contrary bastard that he wasn't expendable. Rodney cracked open his eyes for one last look. John's were closed, his dark lashes fanning above his swollen cheek. Rodney brushed the bruise lightly with his thumb, and John's eyes blinked open.

"Sorry about this," Rodney said, not really meaning it.

"That's okay. I kinda deserved it."

"Yes, you did. Asshole."

John's stupid laugh followed Rodney into his dreams.


	2. Chess Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's side of the story.

The evening after Rodney lost his shit and punched him in the mess hall, John woke up with a swollen eye, a sore cheek, and Rodney's face mashed up against his armpit.

So—a win, really.

He knew Rodney was still angry about the suicide jumper mission, but apparently the kissing had helped. It was new, fun, different, kissing Rodney; or, more specifically, being kissed by him, because it turned out Rodney was a no-holds-barred kind of kisser and sort of took over the lip interactions they'd had.

John didn't mind. There was nothing at all he minded about discovering Rodney wanted him that way, with the exception of not having learned it until too recently. John had never kissed a guy before Rodney, but he'd done another thing or two, in desperate times, once in a supply tent and, on one memorable occasion, in the back of a cargo transport with a division of marines sleeping not fifteen feet away in the passenger hold.

That was a particularly good memory, even if John had come way too fast almost in sheer panic at the possibility of being discovered.

After that came the black mark, and a one-way ticket to Antarctica, and John hadn't had real sex for longer than he could remember. He'd never missed it that much, anyway, being on Atlantis, and real sex, with women, involved a lot of unnecessary touching afterward, and talking, which was worse.

So, earlier, when Rodney broke down and slammed him against a wall and kissed him, John remembered feeling grateful that at least there wasn't a lot of talking involved. But then Rodney started freaking, and it became about calming him down and feeling guilty that he hadn't realized how much Rodney cared, if that was why Rodney was so upset. It could be. Rodney seemed really overwhelmed at the thought of losing him.

Weird, to have someone feel that way about him. He'd always been pretty expendable in the grand scheme of things, starting when his mother died and his father sent him off to prep school soon afterward. John's little rebellion of joining the Air Force earned him a lot of anger, but none of it was about the possibility of losing John as a war casualty; it was much more about losing a son to a low class profession.

But Rodney had been terrified. So scared he'd actually hit John.

It was something to think about.

:::

John was still mulling it over when Rodney snuffled once, murmured something incomprehensible, and then jerked awake, stabbing John in the solar plexus with his elbow in the process.

"Ouch," John said mildly, and Rodney reared up to rub his eyes, his expression crumpled and fierce.

"You. Oh, you," Rodney said, and then, to John's relief, Rodney's face broke into a twisted half smile. "We're in bed."

"We're in bed," John agreed.

"With each other."

John smirked. Apparently Rodney was a bit stupid after waking up, which was good to know, and more than a little amusing. John bent over and kissed Rodney once on the lips, just a quick, dry press, before rolling off the bed onto his feet.

"Not anymore," he said, grinning at Rodney's stunned reaction. "C'mon, we'll be late for dinner. And I want to show off my shiner."

"Crap," Rodney said, dropping his head into his hands. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows braced, looking miserable. "I did that."

"Everyone will be impressed by your macho," John reassured him.

"Everyone will think I'm an asshole. Here you are, the hero of Atlantis—"

"Of the galaxy, pretty much, don't you think—?"

"And I start a fight with you, for no apparent reason, in front of everyone."

"It was more like a sucker-punch, actually."

"Great. That makes it _much_ better."

"You went three-eyed alien banana bugshit on me." John grinned. "Funny thing is, I didn't even see it coming." Rodney's head jerked up at the reminder from earlier that day. Of the kissing and the more kissing and Rodney pressed up against him, shoving him into the wall so solidly that John's spine had been mashed straight.

Good times.

"I'm sorry. Really, Major—it wasn't terribly fair of me, even though I still think you're an idiot for throwing your life away like that, like it didn't mean anything—"

John felt himself stiffen, and Rodney's mouth closed with a snap.

"I know exactly what it meant," John said carefully, trying for easy but falling way short.

"Forgive me, Major, but, no, I really think you don't," Rodney said bitterly, getting to his feet. "Or, at least then you didn't. We had this conversation already. You said you deserved it—" Rodney waved vaguely at John's face.

"I deserved it for not understanding what you were going through, yeah." John shrugged. "But not for doing it. There wasn't any time, Rodney."

"You could have—"

"No _time_, Rodney. No time to find another gene carrier pilot. No time to convince someone else to take a one-way trip. Two hive ships, Wraith in the city, in _my_ city, and no fucking _time_—"

Rodney's face was all twisted up like John was hurting him.

"Look, I'm sorry because now I get it, okay? I know it would have—" John looked away, "—upset you, or something, maybe. It wouldn't have been your fault, anyway, but maybe if I explained that before I left—"

"God, you're such a moron."

"Yeah, okay." John took a deep breath and looked back. "But I still can beat you at chess."

That got him a little smirk of disgust. "So, you can sometimes be a good strategist; that doesn't mean you're smart, _per se_—"

"Rodney." John made himself take a couple of steps closer, because Rodney was jittering again, with that same overwhelmed look from earlier. And fixing it was John's responsibility now, if they were going to have something between them. "I'm a very good strategist. That's how I knew the trade-off was worth it. I _don't_ think I'm expendable—I'm not a pawn. I'm a bishop, maybe," John smiled, "or a rook."

Rodney was shaking his head. He started to back away, and John reached out and gripped his shoulder.

"I don't mind being the rook," John said. "Not if I can protect the king." Because Rodney was the king, even if he didn't know it.

Rodney would have stayed until the end. He would never have evac'd, John knew it. And Atlantis was the game, and John couldn't see it lost—couldn't see them both lost.

"Chess pieces," Rodney said with disgust. "You really think in those terms? Because I may be a cold-hearted scientist with logic on the _brain_, but even I know there's more to it than that."

As gently as he could, John said. "There isn't. Not here. Not with what we're up against." He saw the words hit like stones thrown into a pond, and Rodney's face crumpled, then smoothed.

"Anyway, I think you're at least a queen," he said with forced humor.

John raised his eyebrow but didn't take the bait, waiting. While he watched Rodney muddle it through, he found that same strange sense of peace coupled with dread he'd felt at the controls of the jumper watching the hive ship grow in the front port. He'd been primarily concerned at the time with keeping his voice calm and smooth while speaking into the comm. His last words would be simple data voiced with military precision—no hints of emotion to leave his listeners with reason to regret. His gift, he'd thought, to them, the survivors.

But now he knew he'd made a terrible tactical error with his careless _so long, Rodney_, voiced as he swung out of the command chair. Rodney would have needed more than that. Rodney deserved more than that, and if John was terrible at giving it to him, he'd just have to try harder.

Maybe he could try to say it now. While there was plenty of time.

"I should have said goodbye properly," John said, and there was nothing even or smooth about his voice right now. "I should have told you—" John pulled in a breath through the tightness in his throat, "—that you were the reason I'd regret leaving the most. But you were also—you were the best reason to do it at all."

"Oh," Rodney said in a small voice.

"Okay?" John rubbed his hands together, trying to brush off the shaky feeling.

"Not okay," Rodney said slowly, "but I guess it has to be."

They stood in silence for a long moment, John's discomfort growing, until Rodney shook his head and said rapidly, "Can we at least have incredible sex? Before the situation comes up again, I mean, which you know it will because—hey, this is Pegasus we're talking about."

John laughed involuntarily, and Rodney tilted his head.

"You have a really dirty laugh, you know that?"

John shook his head, still chuckling.

"Even when it's just a stupid knock-knock joke or something, you sound like it's the dirtiest thing you've ever heard."

John's laughter was spiraling out of control, and Rodney was smiling now, and pushing him toward the bed.

"You want to hear my favorite joke ever?" he said, his hands yanking off John's shirt.

John shook his head and unbuttoned his pants.

Rodney pulled off his own T-shirt. "Two muffins are baking in the oven. The one muffin turns to the other one and says, 'Wow, it's really hot in here.'"

John's pants and boxers slid off his hips, and he fell to the mattress.

"The second muffin looks back at the first one and says, 'Whoa! It's a talking muffin.'"

John doubled over laughing, nearly whacking his head against Rodney's bare hip as he knelt down onto the bed. Then Rodney's mouth came down hard against his, and John's laughter shut off in favor of kissing Rodney back.

"That is the stupidest joke ever," John said breathlessly. Rodney's hand was on his cock—_Christ_, it had been way too long since anyone had touched him there. His back arched and he shoved up into Rodney's fist.

"It's the _best_ joke ever," Rodney said, his voice light. "You just have a terrible sense of humor."

John nodded in agreement, because right then Rodney was lowering his mouth to take him in, and John would have agreed to a court-martial and a public whipping if Rodney would just keep—_God Almighty_—sucking his cock like that, tonguing the head and pulling him into the wet, greedy heat of his mouth.

And as John shuddered and came, he thought maybe he might be the queen, after all. At least Rodney really seemed to think so.

Maybe John could believe it, too.


	3. Dog Tags

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's always known he wasn't going to die of old age.

__**Then...  
****  
**John wonders about it sometimes, though he would never admit it to anyone—what it would be like to live expecting to grow old.

He never has.

He was six when his mother died, and it was at her funeral that he realized dead meant _dead_, meant never coming back, never ever.

John tried to ask his father about it, but was brushed off with a grunt and a request that John hand him the martini shaker. That was pretty much the only reason his father talked to him at all, after that.

It wasn't until the summer John was twelve and his best friend, Stevie Winnemacher, got killed playing by the train tracks, that John understood the real horror of death. Because he was just hanging out with Stevie the day before, and decided not to come with to the tracks because he wanted to pick up the new issue of _X-Men_ that was just being released. And just like that Stevie was dead.

It seemed to John if it could happen to Stevie, it could happen to _anyone_.

Not just grownups, but anyone at all.

John wondered if he died, would his father be sad?

:::

John read a lot that summer, hiding in his room with Zelazny and Ellison and Brunner. He read Heinlein's _Requiem_ and realized with a sense of aching unfairness that he was just like the old man in the story—he would die before he ever went to the moon.

Then he read _The Right Stuff_, and decided he'd be a pilot like Chuck Yeager, crashing and burning on the tarmac.

If he was going to die, that would be the best way to go.

:::

John was twenty-two when he went to war.

He learned a lot about death there, but he never did learn how to accept it. The resentment that had been growing in him since he was six years old boiled out of him one day when his commander told him the zone was way too hot and that they wouldn't be mounting a rescue mission.

John disobeyed orders.

All his friends died anyway, and John got shipped to Antarctica.

:::

_ **Now...** _

John is thirty-six when he flips a coin and steps through a gate into another galaxy.

Here, the opportunities to die are exponentially increased. Really, he's surprised every time he makes it back through the gate, and always figures next time he won't. But for the first time he starts to feel like it would really _matter_ if he didn't.

At the same time, the probability he'll get someone else killed by making the wrong decision, by failing to protect them, has blown through the sky.

It almost makes him insane.

The scientists are like baby chicks—defenseless and confused, constantly poking their noses places without learning caution. McKay is the worst of them, because he is so goddamned smart, and obviously worried about such things as getting electrocuted or shot by native inhabitants, but he still goes poking or wanders off on his own way too often for John's comfort.

It's not that McKay isn't afraid; it's that he gets terminally _distracted._

So, John pays a lot of attention to him, and the more attention he pays, the more he likes what he sees.

It's dangerous, but John doesn't stop looking.

:::

John sleeps in his dog tags. There's too much of a chance he will get called out in the middle of the night, and he doesn't want there to be any problem identifying his body. Too many times in the past he's been witness to a mistake and the added heartache it brought to ones left behind.

The dog tags never leave his chest.

Rodney comments on it the second time they're in bed together, which is the first time they have sex. After Rodney sucks him off, John returns the favor, curled over Rodney's crotch, his pink cock sliding in and out of John's mouth, John's dog tags clinking gently against Rodney's hip.

It's the first time John has ever given a blow-job in a bed. Much easier on the knees, it turns out.

"You don't take these off?" Rodney says afterward, giving John's dog tags a tug, and John shakes his head. "Not even for sex? Is that a kink thing?"

"A—what?" John feels himself going red.

"You know," Rodney lifts one of the tags and scrapes it over John's nipple, making him shiver. He's ready to get hard again just on that.

"It's a practicality, McKay."

"For if you get killed." Rodney's voice is flat.

"Not if. When." He didn't mean to say that, and from Rodney's face, it was a really, _really_ stupid thing to say.

"My line of business—" John starts, trying to soften it, but Rodney is already rolling out of bed. "Look, I thought we settled this—"

"That's great. That's just perfect, Major Death Wish."

"I _don't_ have a death wish."

"No. Not exactly." Rodney has started pacing just like he always does when he's working out a problem, only this time he's completely nude which, to John's mind, provides a much more entertaining view.

"Hey, I like my life, okay? I like being alive. Anyway, we already _talked _about this—"

"Hang on, I'm _thinking._" Rodney turns around and faces him. John's eyes drop automatically to Rodney's pretty cock, which is half-hard. When John looks up again, Rodney's expression is a mix of smugness and impatience. "Eyes up here, Major."

"You can't call me that when we're naked. It's just—we need a rule."

"Fine. But getting back to the point—saying _when_ like that, like you're sure it's going to happen—"

"Pretty sure, yeah—"

"It's like you don't care _enough_."

"I care. Christ, I care a lot, all right? I'm just being realistic."

"See, that's the part I don't understand. It's not like you _have_ to—"

"We talked about strategy. We talked about moves on the board. Well, there's no strategy I know of that's going to keep me alive permanently, Rodney. In fact, it's the worst thing to do—you make mistakes when you worry about it. You tense up and fuck up if you're worried about your own hide—"

Rodney shakes his head. "That's not it, either. I mean your logic is all very well and good, I suppose, but you're distracting me from the primary point."

John falls back down on the mattress wearily. "Fine. Go. Give it your best shot."

"You think you're going to die—"

"I know it."

"Okay, so you know it. How? I mean, if you weren't military—"

"I _am_ military—"

"Bear with me for a second. Say you were...a dog catcher."

"In Atlantis?" John goes for the joke, trying to dispel the strange tension starting in his gut.

"Yeah, because we've encountered a lot of dogs out here in Pegasus. No. You're living in Bumblefuck, Iowa, where dog-catching is your true calling. What then?"

John doesn't answer.

"You live to be eighty—"

John shakes his head.

"No? Stray tornado gets you? What?"

"I'm not that guy. I was never supposed to be that guy." John rests his hand over his dog tags, warming them against his skin, seeking reassurance. They're there, where they've always been. He remembers Iraq. Afghanistan. Even Antarctica, where death was waiting in a patch of sudden weather, in a violent, frigid crosswind.

Then, Atlantis. The Wraith. The Genii. That weird, giant gerbil thing on M2V-119 with the poisonous horns.

"What guy, Sheppard? What the _hell _are you talking about? I swear, your brain is like a—" Rodney starts waving his hands, "—confusing swamp of protoplasm."

John grins easily. "I'm _this_ guy," he says to Rodney. "I'm just the guy doing what I'm supposed to do, even if everyone thinks I'm an asshole for doing it. And you're the same guy, even if you don't want to admit it."

Rodney shakes his head in disbelief, but John overrides him. "You could have stayed all cozy and happy in your lab in Arizona, in some classroom at M.I.T., publishing papers and winning prizes. Instead, you're here jumping into black energy creatures or working in a lightning storm to save the damned city. You're the guy that put himself between Kolya's gun and Elizabeth. Fuck, I still can't believe you took on a _Wraith_ to save my life. So don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about here."

John gets up, the sheet falling off him, and sees Rodney's eyes go a little crazy with lust in spite of his obvious anger. John waits, and like a magnet pull Rodney drifts toward him.

"You're the same guy," John says. "That why I—" He doesn't say the rest, but lifts his hand and puts it on Rodney's sternum. Right where his dog tags should be. John will have to requisition him some. He deserves them.

"Okay," Rodney says, and if his voice is a little shaky, John gets why. This is as close as he can come.

Rodney's nipple is tight under John's pinky, and he moves his finger back and forth a couple of times just to feel Rodney shiver. Then Rodney leans up and kisses him; not like the crazed wall-kiss that was their first kiss, or like the desperate, hungry kisses earlier on Rodney's bed. These are sweet kisses, making John feel a little nervous at the tenderness, at the focus.

He feels Rodney's knuckles on his chest as he grips John's dog tags. And then Rodney pulls him back onto his bed.

The soft kisses are edged with heat now, and John groans and plants his thigh between Rodney's legs, feels him squeeze his legs tight on either side. Rodney's hand is stroking up and down John's spine, going lower each time until Rodney's fingertips rest at the crack of John's ass.

"You want that?" John asks, his voice low. "I think I'd like that. A lot."

Rodney pulls back, licking his lips. "Have you ever done it before?"

"Nah. But I'm feeling adventurous." And he wants it. He wants to feel alive. He wants Rodney feeling him alive, because it's still hanging over them—the Wraith so nearly had them all, and then John had made his short, lonely ride in the puddlejumper, speeding toward oblivion.

But most of all, he wants to be in Rodney's flesh memory, buried in Rodney's cells.

Rodney gives him a lopsided twist of a grin, like it hurts him, almost, and then he rolls to one side and reaches into his bedside table. John takes the opportunity to nibble at Rodney's smooth shoulder blade and leave a small mark against the pale skin.

Making a sweet sound, Rodney turns back. He's got a small bottle of lubricant and a condom, but John takes the condom packet and tosses it.

Rodney frowns.

John shrugs. "What, you're going to tell me Carson doesn't test our blood six ways from Sunday every time we come back from off-world?"

"It's the principle of the thing," Rodney starts to huff. Then his eyes go uncertain. "You know, I've never had sex without a condom. I—"

"First time for everything," John says, and kisses Rodney again before he can make up complaints and arguments. What John doesn't say is he wants to feel all of it. He wants to feel Rodney.

John hears the cap on the bottle click, but Rodney doesn't stop kissing him—apparently he has multi-tasking down to a fine art. Then Rodney nudges John's inner thigh with his wrist, and John rolls more to his back and raises his knee.

"Like this?" John says, suddenly uncertain.

"Yeah. No, wait—roll onto your other side."

John twists and squirms more than rolls—the bed is too goddamned narrow—and then Rodney pulls John's leg back and over his thigh. John feels unbalanced, splayed out like this with part of his weight resting against Rodney. But then Rodney reaches between John's legs and he gets the point of the position.

Rodney's slick fingers rub up underneath his balls, sliding up and back, and John's cock jerks to full hardness at the sweet pressure.

"Good?" Rodney says, right in John's ear.

"Uh. Umm..." John says incoherently as Rodney's fingers slip lower, rubbing against his hole. It feels weird to be touched there. Rodney pauses and pulls his hand back to squeeze out more lube, and a drop of it lands on John's nipple, making him twitch.

"Sorry," Rodney mutters, rubbing the lube onto John's nipple with his thumb, and then his fingers move back to John's hole. John rolls his hips forward to give him more room, and Rodney _mmm's_ a little in approval, making John shiver just as the tips of his fingers slide in.

"Easy," Rodney says. John makes himself relax. He wanted this. He still does, but now in the middle of it he wonders what he's getting himself into. Rodney's cock is hard, like a hot bar pressing against his back, and his fingers are sliding deeper inside John's body. Blunt, knowing fingers. John has always admired them, especially when they were saving everyone's ass, but now they're _inside_ John's ass, learning _him_.

Stroking him. Smoothly, easily, so he starts rocking to the rhythm, his dog tags dangling down against his nipple. Rodney's fingers feel good, not so weird anymore, and John lets his upper leg relax, opening himself more.

"Just like that," Rodney says with smug satisfaction, and pushes deeper. John can't reply, because his whole body suddenly jerks with sensation. He'd been expecting it in the back of his mind, remembering uncomfortable prostate exams, but this is nothing like that, because Rodney's fingertips are too smart for that, are too sly and delicate, and instead of pain John feels a bright, sharp pleasure.

His cock twitches, pre-come tickling down the head, and he swipes his thumb over it so it stops itching. Only it feels so damned good he does it again, and suddenly he's rubbing his palm over himself in the same rhythm as Rodney's strokes.

John groans, low, helpless, suddenly so turned on he can't control himself.

Like it's a cue, Rodney bends over his shoulder and puts another finger inside, pushing in, stretching him.

"Jesus Christ," John mutters, because that feels incredible. "Come on," he says, using the leg hooked around Rodney's thigh to pull them both over.

"Hey!" Rodney's fingers slip out and he puts his hand on the sheet to support himself. "Pushy, are we?"

Deciding he should maybe, yeah, take a little control here, John reaches back and pulls Rodney further on top of him. "Ready. I'm ready."

"Oh, and you're speaking from your limited experience of—ah!"

That would be Rodney's cock sliding between John's slick butt cheeks, and John moans softly at the feel of Rodney slipping past his hole. He's never even paid attention to his asshole in the past, but that's going to change in future, damn it. He'd had no idea. None.

_Just do it_, John thinks, as he feels Rodney shifting behind him. But Rodney has other ideas, because he's tugging on John, moving him up, putting a pillow underneath him. That helps, actually, because now John can spread his legs wider; he feels balanced, comfortable, and what a weird thing to feel when he's about to get fucked.

Christ. He's about to get _fucked._

"Jesus, John." Rodney's hands hold him open, and John shivers because he can feel Rodney looking at him; Rodney moans something appreciative, and John's face burns a little where it's mashed against the mattress. Then Rodney's cock is sliding down his crack and catches right at John's hole. It feels big—way big—but John knows this place, it's the same mindset he needs before going in, gun held ready, and he takes a deep breath and lets it out just as Rodney pushes his way in.

There's a pop-sliding feeling and then Rodney really is inside him. _Ow._ Definitely bigger than he thought, and maybe he wasn't ready, but this shouldn't be any harder than anything else he's done. John relaxes and Rodney slowly eases a little deeper and—_Yeah. God, yeah_. Better than Rodney's fingers. It's Rodney's cock getting to know him, pushing in and pulling back, hard and warm as anything.

John moans.

"Good? Oh, good. Jesus, John," Rodney says. His cock feels good, stretching John open, going those last inches until he's warm and solid against John's butt, against the backs of his thighs.

Then they both groan.

When Rodney pulls back, his hands land on John's ass cheeks again and pull him open.

"God, that's beautiful," Rodney gasps. John feels his own ass clench and release involuntarily. Jesus, he's quivering, his legs are shaking as Rodney thrusts forward again, this time fast and smooth, and then he pulls back and does it again, and John squirms a little because he's sure he can make this even better—_like this, right like this—Oh, yeah. Oh, Christ._  
  
"Rodney!"

"Got it, got it," Rodney says, and when he pumps in again it's exactly right, spangles of light sparking behind John's eyes because it's so good, so insanely good when Rodney rubs up against him inside there, behind his balls. The shaking in John's legs is taking over his whole body, and he can feel sweat dripping down his neck as he starts to push back, trying to make it harder. He wants Rodney to fuck him harder.

"You like this, you really do," Rodney says, wonder in his voice, like he's found some incredible new piece of Ancient technology. "You like..._me_?" Sounding uncertain.

The uncertainty breaks John's mouth open. "Yeah. Yeah, do it Rodney. Want you. Do me. God, do me," John chants low into the mattress and pushes back with each thrust. "Rodney. God, Rodney." John feels like he's already coming, like he has been for a while, but he hasn't yet, and he's a little scared what will happen when he does, like maybe he'll rupture something.

Rodney puts his hands on the mattress and leans down over John's back, and John can feel cheek stubble brushing against his spine between his shoulders. Rodney whispers something, too soft for John to hear, and then Rodney really starts to pump short and fast—his back must be killing him, John thinks, but maybe it doesn't matter to him now. Nothing matters but the thrust of Rodney's cock inside him, going so fast now, both of them breathing hard. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_, John thinks, because he might come like this, and wouldn't that be a kick? His dick is poking against the pillow, not nearly enough, but it doesn't matter because he's getting it so good inside, flashes of pleasure, in that same, even rhythm, and he can almost—

"Touch yourself. John, let me see you—"

John hurriedly shifts his weight and squirrels his hand down past the pillow. He can't quite grip himself, but he puts his palm there, so every thrust pushes him down into his own hand.

Groaning loudly now, vaguely embarrassed at the sounds he's making, John clenches instinctively around Rodney's cock, feeling the pull and the push and the rub of his own palm, and John comes just like that. And keeps coming, peaking over and over until he's spent, spunk all over his hand, his ass staying clenched tight while he continues to shake in the aftermath.

"Oh. Oh," Rodney says in his ear, "God, _John_." Rodney pushes himself upright again and grabs John's hips. And then he is being well and truly fucked, no kidding around, Rodney's strong hands moving him around like a doll while he pounds into John's ass.

John yelps with surprise when his cock jerks again, a dry twitching that feels so damned good, but almost too much. He's so alive right now, every nerve calling out, and he knows Rodney feels it, too. Because Rodney is practically sobbing behind him, saying John's name in a breathless voice when he shoves deep and comes. John feels that, too—every jerk and pulse—and who would've thought he'd get off on feeling Rodney McKay coming inside him?

But John does. He loves it. He loves where he is, and who he's with. Semi-hysterically, he thinks of the recruiting poster—_Come out to Atlantis! Make new vampire friends! Get your ass fucked by a brilliant scientist!_

People who don't want this are nuts.

Rodney is still hard inside him, where he's wet with Rodney's come, and John thinks the imprinting has definitely gone both ways, because even when Rodney pulls out with a groan, John can still feel him in there.

"That was...spectacular," Rodney says, because he always needs to sum up every situation, apparently, and John grins quietly to himself. The chain of his tags is pulled tight, caught under Rodney's elbow, so John doesn't move, just feels the tug against his neck, and the weight of Rodney's thigh over his.

John thinks: _he'll remember me now._

That's all he ever wanted, really.

:::

Later, after going back to Earth and giving endless debriefings, they're back in Pegasus on M6B-283, where the nice almost-human people are terrified of the big, toothy s_torwak _they say lives in the hills above the village and comes at night to slaughter their livestock and even a little kid every so often. It's impossible to hunt down, they say, because the _storwak_ has this uncanny ability to bend their sight whenever they get close.

They would happily give their strange, useless Ancient artifacts in exchange for killing the beast.

John, his ass sore from a wild night bent over Rodney's desk, nods his head at Rodney's life signs detector. "What do you say? Want to go hunting with me?"

"Are you nuts? Major, I mean, _Colonel_, we don't even know what this thing is or how it's evading detection. We could end up being _prey,_ like little mice—"

"What, you wanna live forever?" John's eyes stray to Rodney's neck. He can see the chain of Rodney's new dog tags right where they disappear under his shirt.

Rodney smiles suddenly at him, his eyes wide and cheeks flushed.

John grins back, and together they go hunting.


End file.
